"There is some mistake—there MUST be some mistake. Perhaps she is not sure of our consent—his father's and mine; very right of her—very right! I honour her for her indecision. But she must be assured to the contrary—my boy's peace must not be sacrificed. You understand, Phineas?"
Ay, perhaps better than she did herself, poor mother!
Yet, when in answer to the hasty knock, I caught a glimpse of Miss Silver opening the door—Miss Silver, with hair all falling down dishevelled, and features swollen with crying,—I went away completely at fault, as the standers-by seemed doomed to be in all love affairs. I began to hope that this would settle itself somehow—in all parties understanding one another after the good old romantic fashion, and "living very happy to the end of their lives."
I saw nothing more of any one until tea-time; when Mrs. Halifax and the governess came in together. Something in their manner struck me—one being subdued and gentle, the other tender and kind. Both, however, were exceedingly grave—nay, sad, but it appeared to be that sadness which is received as inevitable, and is quite distinct from either anger or resentment.
Neither Guy nor Edwin, nor the father were present. When John's voice was heard in the hall, Miss Silver had just risen to retire with Maud.
"Good-night, for I shall not come down-stairs again," she said hastily.
"Good-night," the mother answered in the same whisper—rose, kissed her kindly, and let her go.
When Edwin and his father appeared, they too looked remarkably grave—as grave as if they had known by intuition all the trouble in the house. Of course, no one referred to it. The mother merely noticed how late they were, and how tired they both looked. Supper passed in silence, and then Edwin took up his candle to go to bed.
His father called him back. "Edwin, you will remember?"
"I will, father."